


Collection

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [48]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Brian Kinney, POV Justin Taylor, Post-Series, Relationship Issues, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin is eagerly working on a new collection of paintings, but the subject matter for his latest catches Brian off-guard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Justin is such a selfish little  _shit._ I don't know why the fuck I've been putting up with him for so long, but if tonight's anything to go by, I won't have to for much longer. Like the insolent little brat he is, he's thrown a fit and stormed out. Well, fuck him. He can stay gone for all I care.

This is what I tell myself when I end up in a cold, empty bed. It's what I tell myself the first, second, third, fiftieth time I pick up my phone to call him and ask him to come home. I never make the call. I'm not going to be the one to cave. Fuck that.

It started with his new collection. I  _liked_ his new collection. I told him so. I believe the word 'brilliant' came up. Maybe twice. Maybe more. Too many times, anyhow, because apparently he took that enthusiasm as permission to go completely over the line.

He showed me the collection last Thursday, when I got back from Pittsburgh and met him as his studio with take-out. It looked like he hadn't left it since we'd last seen each other, two weeks earlier; the floor slick with paint, photos and sketchbook pages strung up everywhere - it wouldn't have been unfair for someone to mistake it for a serial killer's lair. At the bench under the windows, Justin had spread out about thirty different sketches and paintings. "They're a series," he'd said. "I have ten features so far; three of each. See? I might keep them as separate panels, or I might cut them up and mash them together. They represent people in the queer community at different stages of their life."

That was fine, that was dandy, and yes, it was brilliant. He had that brightness about him that I love, that he gets when he's really passionate about what he's doing. He had it again tonight, right before he came up with the stupidest goddamn idea I've ever heard come out of his mouth. Or anyone's mouth. Stupid and _unbelievably_ fucking selfish.

_*_

"I want to include a self-portrait in the collection." He says over dinner, reaching over to steal another one of my dumplings. "I think that's going to really bring it all together. I was thinking about it today, and I spoke to Jo about it, and I thought: the first panel should be before I came out. Mom's sent up my old class photos, from the year before we met. They should work. The last panel, obviously now. The middle panel, I wanted that to be from right after Chris Hobbs attacked me."

"What?"

"Right after he attacked me," Justin repeats, taking a swig of beer. "Before the ambulance arrived, I was thinking."

As this insanely stupid idea comes flying out of his mouth, he's just sitting there eating his dinner and flipping through his portfolio like this conversation is the most normal thing in the world. He's not even looking at me. It's infuriating.

Then comes the real winner: "Tell me about it."

"Tell you about what?"

Clearly missing the dangerous edge in my voice that ought to warn him to shut his fucking mouth, Justin asks idly, "Tell me what I looked like after the attack. Jo said I should talk to you about it."

I instantaneously decide that I fucking hate Jo. Where the hell does she get off, encouraging him to drag me into this?

Unaware of my distaste for this appalling idea, Justin continues quizzing me. "How was I positioned? There was a lot of blood, right? Where was it?"

It's all I can do not to run to the sink and puke. I don't want to think about that. I don't want to think about that fucker attacking him, or how Justin was lying crumpled in a heap, or how  _everywhere_ was covered with his blood.

"Brian?" He asks, flipping calmly through his portfolio. "What did I look like?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

His head snaps up at my outburst. Justin frowns. "What?"

"You're not doing that."

His eyes narrow, and he closes the portfolio. "I'm not doing _what_?"

"You're not doing whatever the fuck it is you just suggested."

"I didn't realise it was your decision," he exclaims, irritatingly indignant.

I raise my hands. "It's not. But I'm sure as fuck not helping you with it."

He's not done eating, but I grab his plate and throw it and the uneaten food right into the sink. Justin gapes at me, and I can feel anger thrumming through the room. It's not just mine anymore. I brace myself for the impending fight. We've been overdue for one for a while now; the realisation it's about to hit catapults full-force into my chest.

"And why exactly is that?" Justin demands, his voice going slightly shrill. 

"Because I think it's a stupid fucking idea and I don't want to be a part of it."

"Where the hell do you get off talking to me like that?!"

"I could ask the same of you!"

He glares at me, knuckles whitening as he grips the counter. "I asked you a question, Brian. It's not like we've never talked about this before!"

A question. A _question._ Like that's all it is, like I'm not about to asphyxiate because what he asked reminds me of the worst time of my entire fucking life. "It was eight years ago! Why the fuck are you focusing on it now?"

"Why the fuck not?"

I lean on the counter, place my palms flat against it. Justin shifts backwards, and I guess I've succeeded in looking intimidating. Really, I'm only posed like this to keep myself steady. I meet his gaze and hold it firmly. "If you want to focus on it, go to a doctor. Go to your cunt of a shrink and get shrunk. Call a fucking helpline, or call your mommy, or go cry on Deb's shoulder for the millionth fucking time. But don't involve me, and don't put it up in a gallery for everyone to see like some snivelling victim turned attention whore."

He recoils.  _Take it back,_ the more sensible part of me urges, but even on my best days the more sensible part of me doesn't get much of a look in.  _Apologise,_ it insists, as Justin wraps his arms around himself and stares at me with pain written all over his face. I don't. I won't. _  
_

"Brian, what are you-"

I start clearing the rest of the dishes. "We're done talking. This conversation is over."

"And that's your decision, and your decision alone? This is my work! You don't get to censor me!"

"Will you stop being such a goddamn drama queen?"

"You're one to talk! You're throwing a fit for no reason!"

"No reason," I laugh, shaking my head. "Fuck you."

"Fuck  _you_ ," he spits. "You don't want to help? Fine. I'm not going to stop working on it - this piece means something to me. I'll call Carl, I'll get the photos from the case file. I don't need you."

Panic worms its way through me. I remember those photos; I remember them being taken, the way the camera whirred and flashed blinding light over his battered, just-shy-of-lifeless body. 

I want to be sick.

"I can finish it without you," he mutters to himself, shaking his head like I'm such a horrible inconvenience, like I'm nothing. Like I haven't lived the last eight years imprisoned with the memory of him bleeding in my arms. "I don't need you to paint."

"Fuck your fucking painting!" I scream, and I hurl his portfolio at the wall where one of his sketches is hanging. It slams into it and they both crash to the floor, glass from the frame spraying everywhere, pages flying out of the portfolio.

Justin's face falls. He looks from me to where his work is laying on the floor, stricken as though I'd hit him. Somewhere beneath the anger and the  _panic,_ I know I should say something now, but I'm too far gone. Justin stands up, turning his back to me as he gathers up the splayed portfolio. He touches a shard of the broken glass, then picks up the sketch that had been in the frame and slides it into the portfolio. He doesn't look at me, he doesn't say a word, he just stays kneeling there silently for what feels like forever. 

Then he leaves.

*

He's probably going to stay gone this time. I can't remember us having a fight that bad since Pittsburgh, or maybe even ever. I've lost count of the lines I crossed.  _Apologise,_ urges the same voice in my head that keeps telling me to call him and ask him to come home. _Apologise right the fuck now._  But I'm not listening. I'll take this cold, empty bed over a conversation about his bashing and my anxieties any day.

Besides, I spent years in cold, empty beds before Justin came along. This is just like old times. Some might call this my natural habitat. I'll re-adapt in no time. In no time, this will feel normal again. It's only right now that it feels all wrong.

It's only right now that it feels like hell on Earth.


	2. Chapter Two

Brian is such an  _asshole._ Why the fuck do I put up with him? Maybe I shouldn't be anymore, maybe I should get the fuck out right now. I mean, do I really want to spend my life with a grown man who still throws temper tantrums? Gus has better emotional regulation than Brian does, for fuck's sake. 

I don't even know what the hell came over him. He was all moon-eyed when I first showed him the collection, raving and calling me 'brilliant' too many times for me to keep count. That's a far fucking cry from being called a 'snivelling victim turned attention whore'. I don't think I'll ever forgive him for that. Or for throwing my portfolio, and smashing the framed portrait of Gus - the one I spent months on, the one I planned and perfected for his last birthday. He might as well have broken it over my head, for how much it hurt.

So I leave, and I don't say a word to him, and I sure as fuck don't look back. He's so ugly when he's angry, and I've never seen him more hideous than he was tonight. I go to my studio, and spend the night on the couch, staring at the work he called 'brilliant' and trying to figure out what the fuck I did to change his mind.

*

I call Carl in the morning and ask him to FedEx me the case file. As soon as I hear him hesitate, I know Brian's gotten to him first. Carl tries to warn me: not to take the file, not to look at it, not to dwell on things. It's eerie - and  _infuriating_ \- to hear Brian's words coming out of his mouth. So I snap at him and tell him to send through the fucking file, and then Deb picks up the phone and demands to know what's going on. 

Well, fuck.

I can't lie to Deb, not even from 400 or more miles away. I tell her about the collection, and she says she's proud of me (Brian's repeated claim of  _brilliant_ echoes in my mind, leaving a harsh sting). When I tell Deb about the self-portrait and how I need the case file photos to get started, she sighs and tells me to be careful, and to take good care of myself. She urges me to call my mom. I promise I will. Then she asks how Brian's taking it. I don't answer, but finally she says, her tone gentle, her voice thick with concern, "Look after him too, Sunshine."

But I don't even know where to begin with that. So I push him from my mind (or try my best to), and bury myself in my work.

*

Days of silence pass, and even though it feels like hell on earth, I remind myself it's better than being screamed at and ridiculed. Not by a lot, honestly, but just enough to get me through.

I stay at the studio and work, and work, and work. I don't think about where he is or who he's with. I don't pick up my phone to call him. I don't let myself feel any of the hurt he inflicted. I ball it up and force it to the back of my mind.

I'm sure that's not a course of action that Jo would recommend, but I can't bring myself to give a shit right now. I don't want to see Brian or talk to Brian or even be reminded of his existence. It's easier this way, for now.

When the case file arrives, I spend a day reading through it and looking at the photos. At first, it's all foreign - like I'm reading about someone else, like it's someone else's bloodied face laid out before me. Then the dots start to connect, and I'm not reading the version of events as told by the cops or the hospital, I'm hearing mom and Daph and Brian explaining it to me. I'm feeling the fogginess that used to plague me, right after it happened, when I couldn't remember a fucking thing. The studio blurs around me and I'm back there - in a haze of bleary half-memories, tossing and turning in the hospital, suffocating in crowds of strangers who could hurt me at any given moment.

My coping strategy used to be Brian. Brian, guiding me through the swarms of threatening strangers. Brian, seeing when I was about to crumble and catching me. Brian, reassuring me that I was safe. Brian, loving me - not saying it, but letting me know it in a thousand different ways.

My fucking hero. What a load of _shit_.

Brian, who thinks I'm a snivelling victim. Brian, who thinks I'm whoring myself out for attention. Brian, who tried to wrench my only other coping strategy from my grasp, who doesn't see it's my way of getting through. 

Brian, whose love has never felt so distant as it does now.

As the studio closes in around me, trapping me with images of my battered self, propelling me back to swinging bats and hospital beds and me scared of everyone, and everyone scared of me, or for me, or _what the fuck ever_ , I realise I can't trust him to bring me back from this. He's not here. He hasn't called. He doesn't care.

I still have my other coping strategy, though. That hasn't abandoned me.

I pick myself up off the studio floor, grab a fresh canvas from the stockroom, and get to work. 


	3. Chapter Three

It takes three days for me to cave and call Justin. I wake up in our cold, empty bed, to a cold, empty apartment, and give in. 

There's been no sign of him anywhere since he left, which has gone from annoying to infuriating to completely and utterly depressing. Normally he's the one to make amends, but it's never been like this before. We've both stooped low before; I've insulted his work, I've mocked him, I've called him horrible names, but I've never done all three in such rapid succession or to such an appalling extent. 

So perhaps it shouldn't come as a surprise when he doesn't take any of my calls. It does worry me when he won't take Cynthia's, or Deb's, or Linds'. I'm not going to call Jen, because she'll either unleash hell on me or get scared shitless. I avoid calling Daphne for similar reasons. I decide to enlist Gus, because there's no fucking way Justin would avoid a call from him, but all this ends up accomplishing is Mel berating me for being a "manipulative shit" and a "slimy fucker" for trying to drag Gus into our fight. I give up and hang up. 

By the time I can get away from work, I've deteriorated into panic. He's missed at least twenty calls from me and everyone else. Justin isn't that stubborn, or that stupid. So why isn't he taking anyone's calls? Where is he right now? Where has he been for the last three days?

What if something happened?

As soon as I can leave the office, I race downtown to find him. He must be at the studio. He has to be there. If he's not, I don't know what I'll do.

When I burst into the studio, I'm on the cusp of a fucking anxiety attack. But he's just sitting there, chewing on a pencil and staring at his work. He doesn't look up at me. He doesn't even fucking flinch.

His phone is sitting right next to him.

"We need to talk," I spit, storming over and grabbing his arm, forcing him to face me. "You  _answer your fucking phone_ , you selfish little shit."

"I was working," he says in a monotone, face blank. "And if you want to talk, you're shit out of luck. I have nothing to say to you."

He forces my hand off his arm and pushes me away from him, then covers up whatever he's working on, but not quickly enough that I don't catch a glimpse of the photos of his bloodied face. My stomach lurches. Justin spares me the most rudimentary of glances and demands, "What the fuck are you still doing here?"

I could tell him how I wanted to apologise. How fucking sorry I am for what I said to him. How I've missed him every minute that he's been gone. But he's pissing me right off, and the temptation to fight back is too strong. "Well,  _technically,_ Sunshine, I pay for this studio. I have as much of a right to be here as you - more, even."

Justin's lips thin and his shoulders stiffen. "You paid for the last three months  _as a loan_ -"

"And the first two years," I remind him smugly, watching his hands curl into fists. I saunter over to the fridge in the corner and pick out one of the fancy fucking juices he's obsessed with, smirking when I realise it's the last one. Justin looks absolutely livid as I unscrew the cap and toss it on the floor, then down half the bottle in one long swig. "Just like I paid for your tuition, and your books, and just about every last art supply you've ever laid your greedy little hands on."

He's shaking all over, and it's any wonder he hasn't tackled me by now. But bit by bit, he reigns himself in, and then says coolly, "I'm not going to fight with you. Bait me all you like; it's not going to work."

"So you won't fight, and you won't talk," I say, noticing him tense up even more as I walk by him. I sit down across from him, on the other side of the bench. Justin glares at me. "What is it you want to do?"

He leans in and seethes, "I want you to get the fuck out so I can work."

"I'll leave," I shrug, "Just as soon as you apologise for scaring the shit out of me and everyone else."

"Fuck off," he scoffs.

"What the fuck were you thinking?! We didn't know where you were, I didn't know who you were with-"

Justin rolls his eyes. "Your first reaction to... well, anything, really... might be to fuck the first guy you see, but not all of us are wired that way."

"Jealous, are we?"

He shakes his head. Sounding totally bored, he says dismissively, "I really couldn't care less who you're sticking your dick in, Brian. Go and fuck whoever you want, just so long as you're not doing it here."

"And what if I did it in our bed?"

Justin cringes, only slightly, but I still catch it. We have a rule against that now, one that I came up with and which we both happily agreed to. I find his reaction, that tiny little flinch, as satisfying as if he were screaming at me. Maybe there's more where that came from. I stare him down and taunt, "What if I took someone to our bed tonight? Some trick from some club? What if I kissed him, and let him stay the night, and maybe the night after that? What if it was someone  _young?_ Someone  _brand new?_  Someone I could - what is it you always insist on calling it? - make love to?"

I watch as he drops his head into his hands, and it's not even remotely satisfying. His breath rattles as he exhales into his palms. I stand up and start towards him, but then he bolts upright and holds a hand up to stop me. "Leave, or I'll call everyone who tried to call me today and tell them exactly what you just said to me, and  _exactly_ what you said to me the other night. I wonder whose side they'd take? My money's on the - what was it you called me? - oh, yeah. The 'snivelling victim turned attention whore'."

My stomach sinks. Justin picks up his pencil and hisses, "Get out."

The guilt spirals through me, making my head swim. Why the fuck did I call him that? Why did I pick a fight with him at all? This isn't the kind we can fix with fucking like we normally would. I don't know where to begin fixing this; I've dug myself too goddamn deep.

I'm about to leave, thinking it's going to be for the last time, when I hear Justin curse. I turn around and he's clutching his hand, which is seizing up. Instinctively, I go to him. He tenses up as I come near, but for some reason, he lets me take his hand in mine. Maybe it's just force of habit. Or maybe I should give him more credit than that. Maybe he's giving me another chance right now, and I should grab hold of it before it slips away.

I run my thumb over his palm, knead my fingers against the back of his hand. All I can hear is his strained breathing; he's trying not to cry. I step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, then brush my other hand down his back. Justin inhales sharply, his back shuddering into one stiff line under my caress.

For a few terrible seconds, I think he's going to push me away. I deserve it. But then his breathing softens, and he leans against me, touching his back to my chest. I wind an arm around his middle and draw him close, squeezing his injured hand gently in mine. Justin rests his head on my shoulder and looks up at me, his eyelashes damp. The pain in his gaze is catching - I feel it tear right through me, and I hate myself for doing this to him. I kiss the side of his head. "I'm sorry."

"You should be," he says, voice trembling.

"I am." I kiss his temple, and watch my thumb massaging his palm.

"You can't say things like that, Bri," Justin whispers, and it sounds like pleading. "It's not fair."

"I didn't mean it."

"Then don't say it!" As he cries this out, his hand seizes up again. I hush him and press my lips against his hair. Justin sighs and eases back against me. 

"I'm sorry," I murmur, hugging him to me. "I'm really fucking sorry. I didn't mean any of it." Then I cover the shell of his ear with my mouth and whisper, "I love you."

"Mmm," he mumbles, burying his face in my neck. We stay there like that, and as I hold him to me and stroke his hand, the tension leaves us. I find myself apologising again, but Justin silences me with a kiss, then tells me it's okay. I try to believe him, but I can taste his tears on my lips, and I still feel sick with guilt.

After a good, long while, Justin flexes his fingers, his hand back to normal, and laces them tightly through mine. "I didn't mean to upset you. That was never my intention, I didn't think... well, maybe that's it. I didn't think of what it might mean to you. I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I think it's like my therapist said - this might always be something I have to live with. I thought..." Justin heaves a sigh and pulls me closer, worming his way deeper into my embrace. "I thought this might help me work my way through it. I had hoped I could take what happened and turn it into something beautiful, something meaningful... that's all."

I look at the bench, where he's hidden his work from me under blank sheets of paper, mostly but not completely - there are corners of canvas showing, splashed with red paint, and I can see glimmers of the glossy photos he's procured. The panic starts rising again; even those glimpses bring it all back in a hideous rush of that bat flying at his head, of blood pouring everywhere, of him lying limp on the ground. And there it is again - that urge to run, to fight and kick and scream, to lash out at him so I'm not the only one hurting, to push him away before he figures me out.

But that's not helping anyone. Not me, and especially not him. I kiss the top of his head, breathe in his scent, and then gather myself enough to say:

"Show me what you've been working on."


	4. Chapter Four

At first, I don't know why I'm giving in and offering him my fucked up hand to fix. Maybe it's just habit. Maybe it's because he's always been better at soothing it than I am. Or maybe it's because it's a fuck of a lot easier than watching him leave.

He takes my hand in his slowly and holds it gingerly, like it's made of glass. Then he's touching me, gently massaging my hand, stroking my back, and I can't ignore how much I've missed him anymore. The warmth of his touch is so welcome, and such a relief, that I almost fall to bits. It all comes rushing back - the pain he inflicted, how much more it hurt to walk out on him, the way I've longed for him these past few days - and I'm suddenly struggling not to cry. 

I don't really want this to be over. I don't want him gone. I ease myself back into his arms and feel him envelop me with warm, strong arms. He kisses my head and whispers an apology, and I'm struck by how unsteady his voice is. I think it's then that I decide to forgive him.

He apologises over and over, and tells me he loves me, and lets me feel it. I burrow deeper into his embrace. The tension between us is gone, but I can still feel his distress. It's surrounded him ever since I brought up the self-portrait, and it was thick on him when he stormed in tonight. It's still there right now, coming off him in waves that I feel powerless to stop.

As Brian holds me close, I find myself staring at a corner of the case file that I didn't quite manage to hide. It's the page with his statement, which I must have read a thousand times over last night, and about a hundred more this morning. It's been echoing in my mind ever since, along with what he said to me all those years ago:  _I wish I could forget._

Sometimes I forget this didn't just happen to me.

My hand, cradled in his, returns to normal. I flex my fingers and weave them through his, grasping our hands together. Watching him carefully, I try to explain myself. I tell him what the self-portrait was supposed to mean, and what I had wanted to accomplish with it. As I talk him through it, I think I feel the distress leaving him. I hope so, at least.

Then his gaze fixes on the work in front of me - or rather, the work I rushed to hide under splayed sheets of blank paper. My first instinct is to gather it all up and put it somewhere where he doesn't have to deal with it, but before I can, Brian surprises me. 

"Show me what you've been working on."

I don't question him for fear of him taking offense or retreating; I just collect up the blank pages and reveal my work to him.

Brian's arm winds tighter around my waist. I tilt my head up and kiss his jawline, squeezing his hand in mine as his eyes scan the photos and sketches. It's not like any other time he's viewed my work; normally he pores over the pieces, brushing his fingers over the canvas if I let him, and all with this quiet smile on his face, like he's proud of me. Like he thinks I'm brilliant.

Now he's holding back, his hands nowhere near my work, and no trace of a smile anywhere. His eyes grow darker as he stares at the photos. "Can you put those away?"

"Yeah," I pick them up and slip them back in their envelope. "Sorry."

His gaze falls to the paintings. Brian takes a ragged breath, and anchors his hands on my hips. "Tell me about them."

"We don't have to do this," I say. "It's late, we should-"

"We do have to do this. Tell me about them."

I pick up the first canvas and talk him through it; it's me at sixteen, before I came out. It matches all the other paintings in that way - the first panels are of us when we're young, which for the most part, was the calm before the storm. My sixteen-year-old self is bathed in yellows, as bright as bright can be. I think I feel Brian's fingers twitching, like he wants to reach out and touch this one. He never quite manages, though.

Then I show him the last canvas, which is of me, now. It's a near-perfect mirror of the first painting - it reminds me of those spot-the-difference puzzles Molly and I used to compete over when we were little. From a distance, the paintings look identical, but up close you can see the last one's rougher lines and richer colours. My eyes are clearer, too, whereas in the first they're cloudy. I spent half of yesterday perfecting that. I talk Brian's ear off about the technique, and as I babble, I think I see a hint of a smile on his face.

It vanishes completely when I show him the middle panel. His face is wiped clear of any emotion, leaving me with no indication of what's going on under the surface. 

"I liked the idea of contrasting it with the other two panels," I ramble, watching his blank face for any sign of  _anything,_  but it remains empty."It's going to be black and white, mostly."

"Mostly?" He echoes, his voice as expressionless as his face.

I nod to the tubs of red paint spread out across the workbench. "Mostly."

Brian stares at them for a good, long moment, and then snaps, "Fuck!"

He leaves me and starts pacing the length of the studio. I let him. I have no idea what to do.

As Brian paces and curses, and paces and curses, I look back at the painting. I've worked on it all day without rest, because I was focused and _obsessed_ and I had this mad rush of energy crackling through my veins, which meant I was doing something right. I'm so close to it that I'm not seeing it the way he is. So I try and refocus.

'Contrast' doesn't even begin to cover the difference between this panel and the other two. It stands out loud and clear, practically screaming at me from its place on the bench. I can recognise myself in the first and last panel, but not in this one. It feels like I'm looking at someone else. His eyes are closed, he's completely ashen, and there's a sense of vacancy - a huge, overwhelming, suffocating sense of vacancy.  He looks like a corpse.

 _I_ look like a corpse.

Brian ceases his pacing and returns to my side, startling me when he loops an arm around me. We share a look, each checking if the other is okay. We're not. He kisses my forehead. I curl up close to him.

Brian rests his chin on top of my head, and says, "You were just lying there. I came and knelt by you, and I didn't know what to do."

I don't move an inch, I don't even want to breathe for fear of interrupting him. He sighs shakily. "You were... crumpled, and when I tried to touch you, when I said your name, you weren't there. There was blood  _everywhere_ , I..."

He turns me around to face him, like an invitation. He doesn't meet my gaze. He stares off into the distance, anguish all over his features. I jump up and throw my arms around him, holding him as close and as tight as I can manage. Brian fits his arms around my waist and pulls me in even closer. He admits quietly, "I still think about it all the goddamn time. I try to forget it, but I can't."

"Forgetting it isn't going to accomplish shit," I say into his shoulder. "Therapy-"

"Fuck therapy," he groans. "Fuck fucking therapy, you can't make me go."

"You sound like Gus before the dentist," I laugh, pulling back and holding him at arm's length. Brian scowls at me. "I wasn't talking about the whole lying on a shrink's couch schtick. Jo's different, she-"

"It's not for me," he interjects softly but surely.

I ignore the slight sting of defeat and change tacks. "How about art therapy?"

"I don't think making a lump of clay with my name on it is going to help, either," he mutters. 

I take his hand in mine and give him a paintbrush. Brian stares at it sullenly, frowning as I guide his hand closed around it. "Come on, you can help me finish this."

"You're going to let me fuck up your masterpiece?"

 _Masterpiece?_ That's even better than all the 'brilliants' he was showering me with last week. Blushing, and restraining myself so I don't literally jump for joy, I grab the pot of red paint I'd been preparing earlier and guide him to dip the brush in.

"Where was the blood?" I ask gently, hoping against hope that I'm not overstepping. Brian sighs slightly, and touches my face with his free hand. He runs his fingers through my hair and over my temple, down my cheek and around my lips. 

"Everywhere," he says, blinking.

With the paintbrush clasped in his hand, and his hand grasped in mine, I help him touch the brush to the canvas. The red paint bursts brightly against the black-and-white. Brian flinches. I steady him with my other hand on his back, and keep helping him with the brush strokes.

"Gentle," I remind him. 

He tilts his head and kisses me. "I promise."


	5. Chapter Five

Three weeks later, and Justin's collection is almost complete. He shows up at my office one Wednesday evening, giddy and unable to stand still. He drags me downtown to his studio and walks me through a maze of portraits, talking excitedly about breakthrough moments and the final touches he's yet to apply. They're incredible, every last one of them, and his passion for them is contagious. I could spend an entire week looking at them, but Justin rushes through all the unfamiliar faces and hauls me over to the far end of the studio, where his three self-portraits are resting on easels.

It's his best work yet. I tell him so and laugh as he smiles delightedly and blushes. Linds will say the same, and so will all of his adoring fans at the upcoming gallery show. Justin sits me down across from the paintings and talks well into the night about how he developed them, and what work he's put in since our night of 'art therapy'.

I don't know how to tell him that his art therapy, however well-intentioned it may have been, was fruitless. It may have helped put us back together, but I'm no better. I still have to hear the  _thwack_ of the bat and the  _thud_ of him hitting the ground - I can't get rid of them. They've been lurking within me since it happened, popping up at odd and unpredictable moments, but since our fight they're back with a vengeance, and they're constant.

I especially don't know how to tell him that as brilliant as his paintings may be, I never want to see them again, not for the rest of my goddamned life. I want them out of sight and out of mind, immediately, if not a fuck of a lot sooner. They may be his best work yet, but they're my worst fucking nightmare.

*

But as it turns out, there's actually something worse than my worst fucking nightmare, and that's seeing those goddamn paintings hanging in a gallery for everyone to gawk at and fuss over. Not that they shouldn't. Justin deserves all the praise in the world and even I'm not enough of an asshole to take that away from him. But I don't want to be there, shoved into a crowd of simpering admirers, listening to them coo and clamor, while I'm struggling to breathe normally because my partner's bloodied face is strung up right in front of me. I don't know what other people are going to see when they look at it; I hope it's better than what I'm seeing, which is all crushed skull and battered brain and sticky blood pouring and pouring and _pouring_.

Fuck.

A month out from the opening, and one of the invitations shows up on the fridge, all crisp and elegant. I ignore it. It makes a mysterious reappearance on my nightstand. I ignore it some more.

Three weeks out, and since I've forced his hand, Justin comes right out and asks if I'll be there. I promise him I will, and then we eat breakfast in silence. I force mine down while he picks at his and shoves it around his plate. I can feel his gaze pinned to me, but I stay fixed to my laptop, pretending I don't know that he knows that something is wrong.

Two weeks out, and he's either at the gallery or his studio... or pinned underneath me, because we're either both still feeling guilty about the fight or we're just addicted to makeup sex. At this point it doesn't really matter which, because it's so fucking good, and it leaves Justin with no time to spare for his accusatory staring. I'm also finding it a fuck of a lot more therapeutic than painting or pissing away money in a doctor's office.

One week to go, and everything's ready. The gallery is all set up. People are arriving in a matter of days. Deb calls every day with an update on all the clippings she's collecting. Justin takes me to see the collection in the gallery, just the two of us, and I can almost handle it. I tell him how proud I am, and he lights up. It gets me through. As we make our way home, he takes my hand and asks me if I'm okay. I distract him by kissing him. By the time I let him go, I've hailed us a cab and I'm bundling him in the back. He's all over me the whole way home, and for the rest of the night. The dreaded subject of whether I'm okay doesn't come up again. Thank god. I don't even know why he bothers - he already knows the answer.

We spend the rest of the week glued to each other. I don't know what Justin's thinking (probably nothing, since I've well and truly fucked his brains out by now), but while he's writhing against me and moaning my name and a whole slew of obscenities, I tell myself: _he's here, he's safe, he's yours, he's alive. He's here. He's safe. He's yours. He's alive. _  
__

Two nights before the opening, I come home and Justin's making dinner. I tell him I ate at the office, and that I still have work to do. He starts to ask if I'm okay, and I lie. Again. Three for three. Then I go and hide like a fucking coward in the bedroom, pretending to pore over my laptop while he's left to eat dinner all alone. 

I think if this were all left up to me, we'd fall apart in a matter of days. Hell, why not give myself full credit? I could demolish what we have in a matter of hours, probably without even breaking a sweat. Fortunately, it's not all up to me. I can, of course, always rely on Justin's persistence. He's always been a tenacious little brat. He's clever, too - clever enough to give me space for an hour, then cleverer still to show up lounging against the door completely naked. The cunning little tease. 

"Are you done with work yet?" He smiles at me, and it's sly and full of heat. 

I sigh, admitting defeat: "Well, I certainly am now."

I set my laptop down and pat the mattress. Justin grins and comes to sit next to me, leaning in for a quick kiss. "You look tense."

"I've been working all day," I say, because stressing out over the opening absolutely counts as work, and hard work at that. Justin hums sympathetically and strokes my back. I sit up and stretch, and he starts rubbing my shoulders.

"Better?" He asks after a few minutes. I nod. "So, Amanda called earlier. Something came up and she can't babysit on Saturday anymore. I don't think we'll find someone else in time - could you look after Gus?"

"What, during the opening?"

"Well, he definitely can't come along," Justin shrugs. "He'd probably love to spend the night in with you."

I steal a glance at him, and the way he's looking at me says it all. This is my Get Out Of Jail Free card. The sense of relief is intoxicating. Yet I manage to keep my cool; I nod at him, and agree calmly, "Sure, I'll stay with Gus. If that's okay with you."

"It is," he says, squeezing my shoulder in reassurance. "Now,  _why_  are your clothes still on?"

"Uh, because you haven't taken them off yet."

He leaps into my lap and starts unbuttoning my shirt, laughing as I grope him. "There's too many buttons - is this a shirt I can tear?"

"You do, you die, you little brat."

"Then you deal with your precious shirt," he leans over to open the nightstand drawer. "I'll... where are the condoms?"

I glance at the empty drawer and shrug. "Try the bathroom."

He groans impatiently. "How do we go through them so quickly?"

"I'm guessing it's because someone's a filthy little slut."

Justin tuts, "Now, now - don't talk about yourself like that."

I make a grab for him but he just darts off into the bathroom laughing. When he returns, he throws a handful of condoms in my face and slides under the sheets. I envelop him in my arms and kiss him, long and slow, while his arms and legs wind around me tightly. 

It would be so simple to just give into this and fuck the night away, but that wouldn't be fair. Justin seems to have figured out exactly what I needed, and even though my Get Out Of Jail Free card was served up with a delectable side of leaving certain things unspoken, there are some things that shouldn't be left unsaid. He ought to know how goddamn grateful I am, and there's no time like the present. After all, I'd be better off thanking him while we still have the capacity to speak.

"Thank you," I murmur, weaving my fingers through his hair. 

"For what?"

"You know for what."

The corners of his mouth quirk in the slightest of smiles. "Don't mention it."

"You know I want to be there to support you, right?"

"I know," he runs his hand up and down my bicep. "But you don't have to be _there_ to support me. I don't want to make this any more difficult than I already have. I wish I'd known to begin with, how hard it would be on you - but I didn't know. I had no idea you even still thought about it."

"It's not exactly something that's easily forgotten."

He sighs. "You could at least talk to me. We shouldn't be having world-class screaming matches over this. Tell me if...  _when_ you think about it. Just talk to me, Bri."

"Okay," I nuzzle into his neck. "You know the upside to world-class screaming matches?"

"Hmm?"

"World-class makeup sex."

"Ugh, I know," he says, tugging my pants off. "It's fucking incredible. Do you think we've set some kind of record yet?"

"I think we've set a lot of different records over the years," I say, biting down on his neck. "But I was kind of counting on you to keep track, Sunshine."

"That's on me, is it?"

"I figured you had some schoolboy diary documenting all of this - probably something fuzzy and pink with a glittery padlock. Top Secret written on the cover."

Justin throws back his head and laughs. "Yeah, with puffy heart stickers, too."

"With  _Mrs. Brian Kinney_ scrawled all through it?"

"Oh, yeah. Obviously." He's shaking against me with laughter. "You know what? I'll call Guinness first thing tomorrow. See if we can't make it into their next edition."

I slip my hand under his back and hold him close, rolling us over so he's on top. Justin eyes me curiously, then smiles from ear to ear when I hand him a condom. He tears open the package, then covers me with hungry kisses as he rolls it onto his cock. I grab a fistful of his hair and suck on his neck, not caring about the marks I'll leave, just in time for all of his admirers to catch an eyeful on Saturday. Justin clearly doesn't care either; he lets me maul him, laughing low and deep in my ear, clawing at my shoulders, moaning. Then he yanks my hair, pulling my head back so he can latch onto my throat and return the favour.

As he fucks me, makes love to me, what the fuck  _ever,_ I hold on to him and tell myself:  _He's here, he's alive, he's safe, h_ _e's yours._

_He's here. He's alive. He's safe. He's yours._


	6. Chapter Six

"Blue or... bluer?" 

Brian glances up at the ties I'm holding up. "Neither."

"Leave it open-collar?"

"If it gets you to take your grubby hands off my $200 ties, sure." 

I glare at him, and he relents, smiling a bit. "Bluer. It'll match the headboard perfectly when I tie you to it tonight."

"That sounds," I glance around, but Gus isn't anywhere nearby, so I drop into Brian's lap and whisper, "Promising. Very promising."

"Indeed it does," he runs his hands over my thighs. "Nice suit, by the way."

"Do I look okay?" I hand him the tie and let him put it on me. 

"You look perfect."

I'm about to lean in for a kiss when Gus comes bounding into the living room, leaping like a ballerina. I hop out of Brian's lap, flashing him another glare when he tries to grope me. He just laughs, then coughs something that sounds an awful lot like  _prude._

Gus stops leaping and plants his feet firmly on the floor. "Justin, I need to talk to you."

As I approach, he gives me a surly look that just  _screams_ Brian. With the exception of Gus' small stature, they're practically identical. It's normally adorable, but right now it's kind of spooky.

"I'm coming with you," Gus announces resolutely, folding his arms over his chest. "I want to see your pictures."

I kneel down to meet him at eye-level. "You wanna come to the gallery, huh?"

"I should have been invited to begin with," Gus lifts his chin and stares me down. "Why wasn't I?"

"Well," I hand him one cufflink to hold onto while I fasten the other, "It's going to be pretty boring. I thought you'd rather stay here and have a pizza party. But you can come with me, you can have some food at the gallery."

He narrows his eyes at me, regarding me with immense suspicion. "What kind of food do they have there?"

"Oh, lots of yummy stuff. Olives, cheeses, sushi..." I watch his face scrunch up in horror, then add brightly, "It'll be nice."

I can hear Brian snickering from across the room. When Gus looks his way, he covers it up with another cough. Gus focuses back on me, chewing his lower lip. "What kind of cheeses?" 

"Blue cheese, feta, that sort of thing."

He wrinkles his nose. "What kind of sushi?"

"Eel."

Gus gags and shudders. Then he leans in and says softly, "I changed my mind, I want the pizza party with dad."

"Okay," I ruffle his hair. "I'll take you to the studio tomorrow to see some of my pictures, hey? We can make one together."

"Yeah," he beams, then throws his arms around me. "Good luck, Jus."

I kiss the top of his head. "Thanks, Gussy." 

Gus runs and catapults himself onto the couch, landing halfway across Brian's legs. Lying there like a starfish, he announces, "Dad, I'm staying for the pizza party."

"Good call," Brian picks him up and sets him in the middle of the couch, then hands him a menu for Fiore's. "You wanna be in charge of dinner?"

Gus nods and starts reading through the menu, mouthing the bigger words slowly and carefully. I nod towards the kitchen and Brian saunters over, smirking at me.

"Did you just lie to our kid?"

My stomach tugs a little, like it always does when he calls Gus  _ours._ I'm still not used to it. I don't know that I ever want to be completely used to it - I kind of like feeling that burst of surprise and joy. "Who's lying? Sushi and cheese are definitely on the menu."

"Yeah, along with pastries and chocolates and a million other things Gus would lose his mind over."

"He's too young," I whisper, glancing over to make sure Gus isn't listening. He's circling items on the menu with a purple marker and sounding out 'anchovies', then gagging as he realises what he's reading. "Linds agreed when she came by this afternoon. This collection is far too graphic."

"He's gonna want to know why. You know what he's like."

Questions, questions, questions, and more questions - that's what Gus is like. Half of the time I spend with him is fielding questions, which are either wonderfully weird or really fucking insightful. He's probably planning to interrogate Brian as soon as I'm out the door. Thank god for that - Brian's a good match for him, he won't crack under pressure.

"Tell him," I pause and grab a handful of Brian's t-shirt, pulling him close, "Tell him the truth. Tell him it's for grown-ups, and tell him he'll get to see them when he's a bit older."

"And when he asks what 'it's for grown-ups' means?"

I shrug. "You'll figure something out." 

Brian cups my face in his hands and kisses me, then looks at me searchingly. He's been looking at me like that for weeks, ever since the fight, like he's trying to figure out whether we're alright or not. I press up against him, really close, and whisper, "I love you."

"I love you, too," he whispers back. "And I don't know if I've mentioned it yet, but I'm really fucking proud of you."

"That's a bad word!" Gus scolds, having suddenly materialised right next to us. I almost jump out of my skin. Brian laughs and pats Gus' head.

"Then don't you go using it, Sonny Boy." Brian kneels down and lets Gus climb onto his back. Once Gus has looped his tiny arms around Brian's neck, Brian stands back up. "Wish Sunshine luck."

Gus props his chin on Brian's shoulder, and with their matching faces side-by-side, my stomach tugs again. Gus grins at me. "Good luck, Jus. Again. That's double the luck."

"Thanks." I kiss them both, and smooth Gus' hair back. "I'll see you in the morning, hey?"

He nods. I grab Brian's arm and squeeze it lightly. "See  _you_  later tonight."

Brian grasps my hand in his, so tight it's almost painful. I wouldn't care right now if it was. If Gus weren't here, I'd come right out and say,  _I'm okay. We're okay. Everything's going to be okay._ But I can't without inciting questions from Gus, so all I can do is lift Brian's hand to my mouth and kiss his knuckles and hope he gets the message.

*

Once I leave the gallery, it feels like the evening has gone by in a flash. I help mom and Deb get a cab to their hotel, and see Mel and Linds off as they head uptown with some of Linds' old students. Right now it feels like thirty seconds have gone by since I left the apartment, but that can't be right, not when I spent half of my evening feeling like it would never end. I've lost count of how often I wished I could escape outside for a smoke, or how frequently I wished the caterers were serving spirits, or how over and over I thought about sneaking home to Brian and Gus. Bone-tired and longing for too many things all at once, I hail another cab and practically beg the driver to take me home.

When I finally get back to the apartment, I half expect to find Brian still getting grilled by Gus, but they're both tucked up in bed. Gus is fast asleep in his room, and when I find Brian in ours, he looks about ready to pass out. I tell him he ought to get some sleep, but he insists he wants to know how my night went.

He lounges on the bed, eyeing me as I undress.

"Do you remember when you insisted on taking me to that technicolour torture chamber?"

"You mean Disneyland?"

"How was what I said different?" I thump his shoulder and he laughs. "Anyway, do you remember how exhausted we were at the end of it?"

"Sure."

"Well, I just found out the hard way that a week with a six-year-old is roughly equivalent to a night with an almost-nine-year-old." He groans into the palms of his hands. "I'm so fucking tired."

I pat his shoulder sympathetically. "You had a good night, though?"

"Not good - great," he smiles softly, and it's the happiest I've seen him in a long time. There's none of the worry that's been plaguing his features for weeks now. He's not anxious, or angry, or trying to shut me out. He just looks incredibly, wonderfully happy. "It was really great. Just fucking exhausting, that's all. How was the opening?"

I grin at him. "Great, too. It looks like I'll be working on commissions for the next year, if not longer. And I talked to Linds, and she offered to take the collection back to Toronto once it's finished its circuit."

Brian frowns. "Are you sure?"

"They couldn't be in safer hands. Linds will look after them, and I'll be able to visit them all the time." I tug on his sleeve and he rolls on top of me, so we're chest-to-chest with our legs entwined. I want to take his t-shirt off so we're skin-to-skin, but that would involve moving, and I really don't have it in me right now. Brian reaches up and toys with my hair, threading his fingers through it over and over. "Besides, I have new ideas I want to be working on. Onto the next thing."

An amused grin spreads across his face. "You're fucking pathological, you know that?" 

"You're one to talk."

Then he kisses me, and it's all-consuming. His hands are in my hair and his heart is beating against my chest, and everything is safe. Who the fuck needs spirits or cigarettes when you have this? I sink into it, and for a good long while, that's all there is, just us.

But then Brian stops and pulls back, and eyes me with that same determination I saw on Gus' face earlier.

"So how was it really?"

So he's figured me out. I wonder what my tells are? I know Brian's by heart at this stage, especially now that they've all been out on prominent display for the last few weeks. It's all these tiny little things, tiny little actions and reactions that are like a secret language between the two of us. Maybe mine are similar to his - maybe he saw me tense up, or flinch, or maybe he sees things going on under the surface the way I do with him. Either way, he's clearly onto me. 

It wasn't all praise and champagne and hors d'oeuvres and talk of commissions. I may have been surrounded by friends and family, but there were a lot of really awful moments where I felt completely alone; isolated in a swarming crowd, like some shrinking fucking violet. I haven't had a bad reaction to a crowd in years, but tonight I came close. Too close.

"I didn't realise how much I'd have to talk about it," I admit, grimacing. I close my eyes and focus on Brian's hands in my hair. "All night, everyone wanted to know all about it. It's not like I've never talked about it before, but it's different when it's a hundred different people asking over, and over, and over, and over. Some of them were fine - hell, some of them were  _great,_ but a lot of them had no goddamned idea  _how_ to ask or  _how_ to talk to me about it. It was like it was some spectacle. Like I was some... I don't know, some character in a picture book, who's supposed to be a certain way."

Like a victim or a survivor or a hero; like I'm supposed to slot into one of those categories when I  _don't._ There were people there treating it like a guessing game, like I was some puzzle to figure out, like they could shine a light on me and make a guess and then fit me neatly into some cookie-cutter archetype. There were people who knew what they wanted me to be; people who were adamant I was obviously  _not_  a victim, people who insisted I absolutely  _am_  a hero. There were people treating it like some linear progression, like I've achieved hero status and that's that - no more victim, no more Justin with his brains bashed in.

But I've been all three of those things - victim, survivor, hero - sometimes even all at once. And it's never been clear-cut or easy to make sense of; tonight I might feel like their majestic survivor, but I could wake up next Wednesday feeling like a victim all over again. And really, what's so fucking heroic about taking a bat to the head? Do they slap on that label as soon as you've suffered? What if I'd been killed - would I be a hero then? Or if I'd become a vegetable? Life support machines don't exactly scream of heroism, do they?

It also doesn't scream of heroism when you're standing in a room, recounting an event over and over, with your battered self staring back at you, and you realise it requires effort to take your next breath. Or when you struggle to finish a sentence because you see your mother across the room, looking at the portrait of her injured son and tearing up. Or when you wish you could just bail on it all, everything you worked for, and go running home to your partner and your kid because they're not going to ask you invasive questions or make you feel like you're suffocating.

I tell Brian all of this, and wonder out loud about how it was somehow one of the best and worst nights of my life. He looks at me strangely, his hands stilling in my hair, and says, "You said that night was the best night of your life. Prom night. Right before I left you. Right before..."

Right before it happened. Right before the bat hit my head and the worst night of my life began. Right before I became that strange, murky hybrid of victim and survivor and hero. I still can't remember all of it, but there are bits and pieces that I can cobble together: flashes of light and sound, vague recollections of Brian laughing and dipping me and spinning me, and a distant but dizzying feeling of happiness. 

"It was," I say, smiling at him. I know it was. Even eight years after the fact, Daphne still talks about it, about how wonderful we looked as we danced. She tells the story every chance she gets, and whenever it's in front of Brian, he listens without making fun. I think he likes remembering that part of the night. I think he especially likes the way Daphne tells it. I know I do. She gets this glow about her, and she spins it into this ridiculously romantic story. It's the next best thing to actually remembering it.

"I should have been there," Brian says, groaning. He rolls off me, but stays pressed up against my side. 

"No," I reach for his hand and knot my fingers in between his. "Don't think like that."

He pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. I turn on my side to face him. "It wouldn't have changed anything if you were there. They still would have asked me all the same questions. Mom still would have cried. Deb still would have gotten lipstick all over me. And it wasn't all bad, a lot of it was really great! I just wasn't ready for certain parts of it. I didn't think I'd have to relive it over and over and over again. I didn't think people would come armed with so many opinions."

"I'd have thought you'd be used to that by now. Being a famous  _artiste_ and all."

"When they're talking about my work, sure. But they weren't just talking about the painting tonight. They were talking about me." I snuggle in closer to him. "Here's a question - multiple choice. What do you think I am? A - Victim, B - Survivor, C - Hero."

His eyes skim over me, like he's assessing me and my situation. Then he sighs and says, "I don't think anyone's that simple. Least of all you, Sunshine."

I hum in agreement, rolling over onto my back. Brian kisses my knuckles again, then opens up my hand and kisses the heart of my palm. He hesitates, then asks with a frown, "Having said that, is it too simplistic to ask if you're okay?"

Staring up at the ceiling, I breathe in deep and consider this. The questions and opinions and labels were suffocating, and something I wasn't even remotely prepared for. It felt like being pinned to a board and dissected. But then there was Deb, hugging me and pinching my cheeks and saying, "Sunshine, I'm so proud of you." And Mel, telling me she loved me and hugging me for longer than I can ever remember her having done before. And Linds, either by my side or watching me from across the room with her warm gaze, mouthing at one point, "They adore you." And the way my mom clung to me, fighting tears and apologising for it, then apologising for apologising. And then there were all the people who didn't ask questions or try and slot me into neat, narrow categories - they just told me how much the collection meant to them, or what their high school years were like. One girl showed me the scar her attacker left behind. Another woman kept touching her wrist as we talked, and I could just catch a glimpse of cigarette burns. They each thanked me - quietly, but profusely and sincerely. I could tell how much they meant it. Hell, I could  _feel_  it, right in my core. I still can right now.

Just like Daphne's ridiculously romantic retellings and my vague snippets of memories, this will be what gets me through. That, and my art. It may have been difficult tonight to stand and stare at my self-portraits, but they've given me a sense of peace I didn't realise I was missing out on until I found it. And pathological though it may be, I have so many more ideas that I can't wait to explore.

It's simple and it isn't, but right now I know the answer to his question. I squeeze Brian's hand in mine. "I'm okay."

I can feel him watching me, and there's that sense of distress again, rolling off him and colliding with me. I climb on top of him and, chest-to-chest again, grasp both of his hands in mine. "I'm  _okay_. I promise. Are you?"

Quietly, but profusely and sincerely, Brian says, "As long as you are."

I lean in close and vow, "I am. I'm right here, and I'm okay. We are too. Right?"

He nods emphatically, then hauls me in for another kiss. I can't remember a better one. There's that tug in my gut again, paired this time with a very real, very vibrant feeling of dizzying happiness. I let it consume me, and as we become entangled in each other, there's nothing but the two of us. Everything else falls away.

**The End**


End file.
